


Arguments and Misconceptions

by CavannaRose



Series: Dragon Age Stories [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mentions past Alistair/Mahariel, Strained Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 12:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13213845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: They had not married for love, but what will it take to make him see that she is trying to make it all work?





	Arguments and Misconceptions

**Author's Note:**

> I have a weird obsession with Alistair and Anora, about how their marriage would work, where it would falter, and how they could come through it. This was just a thought on that path.

The former Gray Warden sat on his throne, his once joyful face drawn and brooding. Across the room, the woman he had married spoke with a courtier, not even sparing him a look. How had he gotten here? He'd been a stable boy, a Chantry disciple, a prospective Templar, a Gray Warden, and now he was King of all Ferelden. Life twisted and turned, but he never would have expected to end up on his half-brother's throne, with his half-brother's wife at his side.

Laughter rang out from across the room, and Alistair Theirin scowled once more at the back of his supposed wife's head. Perhaps "at his side" was too generous a description for their circumstances. Despite the fact that this was her idea, she seemed content, for the most part, to ignore him. She was gracious, to a point, but behind closed doors they lived separate lives, and she only sought him out to question and berate him for his every action. Heaving a heavy sigh, the blonde man closed his eyes, memories returning to a more pleasant time in his life.

An hour later they were in Council, debating the allocation of a border dispute. Both sides felt they were in the right, and the debate became heated, the Orlesian minister raising his voice to increasingly greater decibels. On the Ferelden side, His Majesty's Counsel was declaring it as an important piece of Ferelden history. Anora stood, waiting patiently while the room quieted. She put forth a suggestion, that they split the difference and call it even. Both ministers stood, shouting the idea. All of it was making Alistair's head hurt, and he couldn't even understand why any of it mattered. Slamming his fist down on the table, he pushed himself up. "Enough! It's a silly scrap of swamp with no value. If it's so important to the Orlesians, they can have it, but that will be the last concession we make. Next time they come to my table and demand something, they will be escorted out. Dismissed."

He stormed from the room, ignoring the Queen as she called his name. Whatever was left to decide, she could sort it out. He was done. All he wanted was to go down to the training field and swing his sword at something solid until every bone in his arms vibrated with exhaustion.

Later that night, Anora burst into his private study, her face stormy. Everything about her posture said they were about to fight again, and he was tired of it... so very tired. He didn't even stand to greet her, he barely even looked in her direction. The last thing he wanted was another shouting match. Her voice was strident. "What did you think, precisely, you were doing today at Council when you eviscerated my idea and put forward that nonsense about splitting the difference? You made us look weak!"

Pushing his chair out from under the desk, he stood, crossing the floor to meet the Queen, his face reddening in anger. "I was making decisions, just like a king should. Just like you keep haranguing me about making an effort to do. Will nothing make you stop harping at me, woman?" Anger and frustration twisted each of their faces into ugly masks. All the pain they had piled upon one another since taking the throne was stamped across their features like an accusation.

"If you insist on being stupid, we may as well give our country to the Orlesians on a silver platter! We are supposed to be a united front, not a pair of bickering jackdaws scrapping over who belongs on the perch! Perhaps you would prefer I give the entire country to your precious Wardens to do with as they will? Perhaps that is what your precious Mahariel would have done?"

"Don't you dare speak her name!" Alistair shouted directly in Anora's face, taking a threatening step forward, fists clenching. "She was a hero, and you're just a silly little girl!"

The crack of Anora's hand against his cheek startled them both. He stepped back from his wife, watching as the tears she had been holding back raced down her cheeks. "I know I'm not her, do you think that I do not? But I'm not some brainless ninny. I have trained my whole life to do this. Cailan ruled with me, trusted my opinions and advice. Do you think this is easy for me, when you stand there with a face so much like his? Do you think it does not hurt to look into my beloved's eyes in someone else's face, then to see those eyes narrow with scorn when I speak? We knew this would not be a love match, Alistair Theirin, but I hoped for at least a modicum of respect, maybe even friendship in time, but you cut me out at every turn! I forgave you for killing my father, by the Maker! The least thing you could do is forgive me for not being the woman that you actually loved!"

She whirled around, stalking away and leaving the King of Ferelden standing with his mouth hanging open, one hand on his stinging cheek. Was he wrong? Was he part of the problem in his marriage? The entire time he had been looking at their life together a certain way, blaming her every time things faltered or they ran up against each other. Maybe, in a way, blaming her for a death that she wasn't even really linked to.

It had been a week, and he was starting to notice the little things about her, things he never allowed himself to see before. Like now, she was beautiful in her anger. She had refused even to look in his direction since they had fought. Still, more and more he would find himself looking at her, the film of bitterness finally falling from his eyes. Perhaps she was right, perhaps he truly was at least partly responsible for the strife in his marriage, but he didn't know how to repair it.

That night, alone in his drafty room, the King of Ferelden swallowed his pride and wrote a letter to an assassin, begging for advice.

 


End file.
